


Uniform Code

by cathouse_mary



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, Grim Reapers, Newbie!Eric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathouse_mary/pseuds/cathouse_mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a bunch of origin snippets and headcanon concerning the arrival of one Eric Slingby into the London Dispatch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uniform Code

He was desperate, that’s why.

London Division was at its lowest staffing level in 300 years, and Will was desperate. He was well aware that he was the youngest to head a division since the advent of the Black Death, and well aware that he had been put in here specifically so that someone with more seniority wouldn’t have to take the shame of failure if unable to bring the division back up to specification. 

Well. Bugger them. There was a time when maximum effort was called for and this was one of them. He would not fail, and he would bring down the excessive overtime to something within reason. In order to do that, Will needed enough Reapers to spread over three full shifts and split shift to cover the rush period. Humans and all their varied ways of dying kept them very busy.

Will pinched the bridge of his nose, promised himself a nice brandy after office hours, and picked up the last personnel file.

Slingby, Eric.

Edinburgh/Glasgow Division: Reaper: Junior Grade: Collections: Field.

Triple A in technique. A scraped-by B in Ethics. Marks a mix of A or B otherwise, apparently depending on his interest. 

There was not much in the way of assessment from his current Senior aside from, ‘Got the job done, didn’t he?’

Slingby’s Division Head reported only that the paperwork was done to standard, so it was to be hoped that Slingby would not add overmuch to his collections of cast-offs and oddballs.

Will flipped to the next page. 

And blinked.

His creche tender had a name that sounded like someone falling violently down stairs. Mhoirbheinn a’ Bhogha Mhaide must have raised this one on haggis and had him lift sheep. The brown-haired youth was no more than six months out of the academy, but would stand taller than anyone in the division aside from Will himself - and Grell in his ridiculous heeled boots. Slingby also had a bulldogged jaw and a pugnacious expression.

Will signed the transfer order, stamped it, rolled it up in a container, and dropped it into the pneumatic tube system.

Now, who should he assign as Senior?

He’d done pretty well bringing in new blood and pairing them with solid mentors. 

Perhaps too well.

The ones he was planning to shuffle to office duty only were simply unacceptable. Their bad habits would simply give him another disaster further down the road. His most solid prospects were mentoring one-on-one. Slingby was far ahead in technique, too far for some who would be overmatched and overwhelmed. 

That left-

Will put his head down on the desk and whimpered. He’d need that brandy.

A bottle of it.

And a straw.

~

There was something about the silence in the dispatch room a week later that told William there were Things Gone Awry. So, steeling himself, he looked in. 

His Reapers - minus one who was inexcusably late - were on one side of the room.

The new transfer - Eric Slingby - was on the other doing nothing but reading his newspaper, a cup of tea at hand. 

He was also egregiously out of uniform. The kilt was, if stretching it, a regional variant the uniform. In a Reaper’s tartan kilt pleated to the sett, with hose, garter flashes, sporran, and sporting a pair of sgian dubh, Reaper Slingby made a rather intimidating sight. 

“Reaper Slingby.”

The young Reaper set his paper down and straightened up, his Glengarry tucked under one arm. ”Sir.” 

“You are out of London’s uniform.” 

“T’were noon tae fit me. Tayr mekkin’ ‘em oop, sir.”

It took Will a moment to translate that. The accent was thick enough to scoop from the air and spread on a scone. 

“I see. They were unwilling to expedite your fitting, then?” There were going to be some words. His division was not going to get the dirty end of the stick from its own support staff.

“Aye, sir. Told me t’would be aboot a moonth.” 

“Unacceptable. I will speak with them personally.” Will checked his pocket watch. The lateness was inexcusable. Honestly. Today of all days you would think- “Your assigned Senior seems to have been delayed-”  
What an odd expression on his face; the youngster's eyes suddenly tracked something behind William and his jaw dropped slightly. “Reaper Slingby?”

The tick-tack of high heels on the flooring alerted him as to the cause.

“Well, William! Here I was thinking you were giving me a young, tender spring lamb!” Grell chortled lasciviously - had anyone in his life ever actually chortled besides Grell? Much less lasciviously? No. Because most people in his life were not Grell. For which he was thankful. “I’d call him more of a spring ram!”

Slingby was now slightly bug-eyed and the rest of the division was snickering as Grell swept into the room. 

Also noteworthy was that nobody in his life swept. They walked. Grell swept his coat, and swished his overly long hair, and did other things that were not walking. And he did it in those blasted red boots with the ridiculous heels.

And perfume.

Was that lipstick?

The uniform was acceptable. With the exception of the boots and the red silk cravat. 

“Really, Will. If you wanted to give me incentive-” There was a flutter. Typhon reap him now.

“Senior Reaper Sutcliff, meet your junior - Reaper Slingby, late of the Edinburgh/Glasgow division.” 

The pair sized each other up like a pair of strange cats, Slingby sizing up Sutcliff in a way that raised Will's hackles.

“Oor you a sir oor a mam?” Slingby asked bluntly. 

Jaws around the room dropped, Will’s included. 

“Finally! One of you clods gets it!” Sutcliff looked pointedly at Slingby’s arm until he offered it and then hooked his arm through it with a flourish of his coat hem. “Now, Eric - is it? Eric, darling, that outfit. Really. No.”

“T’is no an ootfit, mam. T’is a kilt - an’ the oonly uniform I’ve got.” Explained with a patient air. “Now you being sassenach an’ ignorant o’ proper dress-“

Sutcliff spidered his hand up the inside of Slingby’s arm, and his (wait... ma'am?) smile was showing sharp teeth. “Oh, educate me. Do tell me, Eric - is anything worn under your proud Scottish kilt?”

Slingby smiled, and allowed himself to be led from the room. “No, mam. T’is all in tip-top condition.”

~

Apparently Grell had more pull with Uniforms than William himself. Something that peeved him excessively, which peeved him more. In fact, the fitting and tailoring was being done on the fly.

Not that Slingby was being very co-operative, from the sound of things going on behind the fitting room curtain. 

“Oi!”

“I have to measure you for the inseam.” 

“T’wasn’t that! Your hands are bleedin’ cold!”

“Do you dress to the left, or to the right?”

“I wear a kilt - it hangs straight down. Winter, I put a stocking on it.”

Grell was deriving excessive amusement from all this. “Make him up some drawers, too.”

Slingby explained patiently that drawers were unhealthy, that everyone knew a healthy breeze was best around the bits so as to stave off something called ‘the damps.’ 

“Baws want oot.”

“Eric.”

“Mam?”

“Put the pants on and let the gentleman measure.”

Slingby expressed an opinion largely composed of gutter language on what one might do with the pants.

“Or I can come in and help.”

“Give me the blasted bloody pants.”

The tailor came out of the room and gave Grell a wink and thumbs up. There followed some nonsense with the hands measuring-

Um.

Grell grinned and fanned himself.

Will resisted the urge to swat Grell with his scythe. 

~

The Drinking Song of the Edinburgh Reapers

Do yer baws hang low  
Do they waggle to an’ fro  
Can ye tie ‘em in a knot  
Can ye tie ‘em in a bow  
Can ye fling em o’er shoulder  
Like a proper Scottish soldier  
Do yer baws hang low

Do yer prick hang down  
Do it drag along the ground  
Can ye hang it off a bridge  
And get a nibble from a fish  
Ye say the water’s running cold  
I say the water’s running deeper  
Do yer prick hang down

Do yer baws swing in the breeze  
Are they bangin’ on yer knees  
Do they give a brassy clamour  
When ye hit ‘em with a hammer  
Can ye bounce them off the wall  
Like an india rubber ball  
Tell me Reaper laddie  
Do yer baws hang low

*there are at least 100 known verses to this song

~

The morning after Slingby’s hail-and-farewell party was quiet. This was largely due to the naked and blisteringly hung-over condition of London Division. 

“The Scots came in with Slingby, Will. All of them kilted and burring all over the place.” Grell reported with relish. ”They drank everyone to the floor, then left with the girls.”

“Which ones?” Depending on what department it was, Will might have to bundle staffing out of General Affairs.

“All of them. They also took the remaining whisky and ale, the sots’ clothing, the contents of the kitchen’s larder, the pub’s furniture, the barkeep, the barmaids, and the serving lads as well.”

Will sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Not even an hour in and he already had a headache. “I suppose I should be grateful that we no longer keep sheep.”

~

There was a storm of whistles and catcalls from the dispatch room, making Grell smile. She knew the likely cause; after all, she’d had a hand in it. 

“Whoo-hoo! Look out, ladies”

“Slingby’s looking sharp!”

“Sod off!”

“Now-now, junior!”

Grell grinned. Uniforms had delivered Eric’s gear personally as he kept refusing to come up and sign for them. In helping with the transition to trousers, Grell had also broken into his flat and stolen every stitch of his kilts. It was either put on a proper London Dispatch uniform or show up naked.

Not that she wouldn’t put it past her hard-headed junior to do just that.

Grell paused, earning an inquiring look from Will.

“I’d better go make sure that he isn’t showing up naked.”

Will’s eyebrow spasmed. “You cannot seriously believe he would. Can you even imagine the demerits?” 

“Will? We’re talking about Eric Slingby.”

Who had helped to plunder and pillage the local pub, gone though Secretarial like a prize ram, and been in more fistfights than any ten other reapers. By the First Scythe, this one was a job of work. 

“You do have a point, Sutcliff, please go to make sure he is also not painted blue.”

There was little love lost between the newest member of the London Dispatch and the one who had initiated his transfer from his previous cozy spot. 

Not that Eric was lazy, mind. Anything but.

He was cocky, certainly. Not to mention as contrary and stubborn as they came. Cheek did not begin to cover it. And Grell required a use of a Scottish-to-English dictionary when Eric had his wind up, not to mention a crash course in Gael…

Well. 

Grell fanned herself, looking her stroppy lad up and down. Oh, my. It was a shame to hide those manly legs, but he cleaned up very nicely and had even buttoned the waistcoat.

“My, my. Eric, you look verrry tasty.” Teasingly she pulled his collar down and flicked a nail over a purpling spot on his neck. “Goodness, it even looks as if someone’s tried to take a bite!”

Love-bites. Eric wore them like medals.

“Well, mam, fair to say they had plenty and left the table satisfied.” 

The cheek. For that she smacked his arse. “You are a libertine.”

A libertine with a very firm arse. It was like smacking the haunch of a carthorse. And-

Wait.

Grell gave another smack. 

“Eric. I know that I had Uniforms make you up some drawers. What exactly are you wearing under your trousers?”

Eric’s smile was wide, slow, and lazy. “Two shades of lipstick, mam.”

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to kittycarmine for the Brit-picking, beta, and inspiration for the final snippet!


End file.
